


When the stars threw down their spears

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ass-Kicking, Canon-Typical Violence, Diplomacy, Established Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Feral Keith (Voltron), Galra Keith (Voltron), Keith goes curb stomp battle 1000x, Light Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Quintessence-Sensitive Keith (Voltron), Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28544274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Keith’s been hiding things all his life, and this can be tucked away. If he doesn’t acknowledge it, he reasons, it can’t do any harm. And perhaps it’ll become latent again, dormant, and he can forget.Or, Keith reignites his quintessence reserves and goes feral. (More than once.)
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 177





	When the stars threw down their spears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morthael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morthael/gifts).



> For Ree, for winning my Twitter followers giveaway! <3 You asked for "feral Keith" and I went a bit wild. 
> 
> Title comes from William Blake's "The Tyger."

After the war, Keith makes the desert bloom.

He only meant to fix up the shack, still miraculously standing after the Galra invasion—and even then, in space, he feared the Garrison would find some way to snatch the last of his father away. But it remained, albeit dusty from the years of disuse, his map of what would become part of his destiny still clinging with thumbtacks and faded string. Krolia had come with him after visiting the grave, touching the no-longer crackling radio and beat-up couch and photographs laying in a drawer. Keith had given her a small book filled with them to carry, now that she no longer had to hide their existence.

She did not stay to help rebuild Earth—she was needed more in space. But this time, parting was easier, especially now that neither of them would be alone.

Especially now that Keith has Shiro.

And Shiro, Keith learns, is skilled with many things, but repairing a wood-rotted roof and installing new windows are tasks he leaves Keith to. Keith doesn’t mind—there’s work in fixing something on his own, even scrabbling in the dirt in his long-dead garden.

“I never got to eat any of the things I planted,” he tells Shiro, who's kneeling beside him in the dirt, both of them stripped to their tank tops. Keith in particular does not mind this, even stretching occasionally to show off his muscles like some preening adolescent. “I guess it went to the animals, or just shriveled in the sun.”

Some long-dead plants are giving him trouble, and he sighs, swiping a soil-streaked hand over his forehead. Hacking with a small shovel doesn’t do any good; it might just be easier to tug it up with his bare hands. 

And as he skims over a shriveled root, intent on ripping it from the ground, his fingers seem to stick in place—and what he’s now holding is a carrot, orange with a bright green sprout dangling from one end.

“Looks like something survived,” Shiro says wryly, glancing over. 

“That’s not—it was dead,” Keith begins, reaching for another, and tiny fuzzy, feathery tendrils bloom under his fingers, dotted with a silvery bud. His dad had pointed them out to him, when he was a kid: _Apache bloom, one of the only flowers that can not only survive the desert but climb towards the sun._

“That’s… not possible,” Keith says slowly. 

But clearly, it is.

* * *

Even the Blades have no idea what’s going on with him. 

“You must have some druid blood in you, but I have no idea where that came from,” Krolia admits, after test after test continued not to reveal a single thing. “The Galra aren’t as pure-blooded as they like to claim.”

“But how did it…” Keith shakes his head. “Why would it show up now?”

“I don’t think it just did,” Shiro says. “You found the Blue Lion, and with Macidus, you were able to sense his presence.”

“But that’s nothing!”

Krolia gives him a look. “Clearly it isn’t.”

Allura has a different take when she hears: “It seems like it’s been latent, just beneath the surface.”

“Could you sense it, back then?” he asks. “At all?”

“No,” she says. “But it’s always been yours.”

Keith raises the datapad a bit closer. “So far I’ve just been able to grow stuff around the shack. Do you think it’ll… become more than that?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But it’s clear you have a gift: not just sensing, but manipulating quintessence. I haven’t seen it since…” _Lotor_ and _Honvera_ die in her throat, and her eyes narrow. “I’m afraid Coran and I—are really the last, for now, and I thought I might not be able to pass it down.”

Allura takes a breath. “I would be honored if you let me teach you.”

* * *

He comes to Altea wading among the juniberry flowers, and misses Shiro. He could not ask Allura to leave her planet, newly-reborn and very fragile, and he could not ask Shiro to leave the Garrison, negotiating for intergalactic trade and protections for Earth.

The first night, he does not sleep, wishing for the warmth he’d gotten used to. Something itches in him, pulling at him like a string—it’s been so long since he and Shiro have separated, and being together is something new entirely. He tosses and turns for Shiro’s touch, Shiro’s typed messages unsatisfying and lacking the calm cadence of his voice.

He pictures Shiro, laying in their empty bed, and puts himself back there, crawling over him and taking his face in his hands. Shiro would drink him in, winding fingers in the hair Keith’s growing out, and Keith would lean closer and closer, wanting nothing more than the heat of his body.

He imagines climbing over Shiro’s hips, hitching himself to Shiro’s shoulders with his nails, leaning down to bite his pleasure into Shiro’s skin. He would mark Shiro in ways different from the cruel strokes of blades or claws or fangs—each touch will be say one thing—Shiro is _his_ —

Keith comes with a cry, and raises his fingers to his lips. The palms of his hands have been pierced by his nails.

* * *

He finds that he doesn’t have enough in him to power a ship, but it’s still something.

It’s also hard to sense, to pull it to him. Allura tells him after all this time, quintessence comes to her as easily as the lions did, and at first, she had to concentrate with all her mental strength to even make the castle lights flicker. 

“I wish there were more around who knew more than me,” she confesses to him during one of their lessons. “All we have are memories and scrolls—nothing to scoff at—but there’s nothing like a true teacher.”

“You’ve been to Oriande,” Keith says. “I think that has to count for something.”

Allura’s unfaltering patience keeps Keith steady, even when his mind so fiercely that he has to lie down, when his fingers sting as if they’ve been burned, when he’s too exhausted to even reply to Shiro’s messages. She draws it out of him like dipping into a well, forcing him to concentrate on pulling it up, up, up, allowing it to become as natural as blood flowing in his veins. His body protests, wanting whatever’s happening to keep still, but Keith doggedly pushes on.

He remembers Allura holding Shiro’s life in her hands, in her veins, even as his body lay limp in Keith’s arms. The faltering breath and hacking cough, the way Shiro leaned against him, voice scratched thin. _You found me._

If it weren’t for her—Keith cannot even think of it.

Before long, he can feel quintessence without searching, even revive a dying tree. Allura has his press his palm against the scratchy bark and _will_ it to remember being alive again, to drink up the sun and spread its branches, and as its leaves straighten and become glossy and lush, Keith knows the power in his hands.

* * *

At night, he feels his new edges of his teeth, growing like the plants outside the shack.

* * *

He’s drawn away by Blades business—the usual hunt for an old warlord that managed to slip the Coalition’s bounds more than once.

His crew welcomes him back, though Axca seems wary, though willing to work with him.

“I just worry,” she says on their way to their destination. “Quintessence corrupts. I trust Allura, but quintessence has been nothing but a curse.”

“I have no desire to become more than I am,” he says, but Axca shakes her head.

“I don’t necessarily worry about that,” she replies. “You never sought power.”

That is true: Keith has turned down emperorship more than once, and even with wartime honors clinging to him, he’s content with leading his small team of Blades, refusing sole leadership, no matter how many times Kolivan asks. He led because Shiro wanted him to and because he had to, and that’s the extent he’s willing to go.

“Lotor…” Axca continues, “Lotor had good intentions—please, he did. But quintessence magnified the worst of him—his paranoia, his cruelty, his thirst for acceptance. It did the same with Haggar and Zarkon. Allura may be made of stronger stuff, but over time…”

Keith remembers the alternate reality they’d stumbled across, Sven crumpling to the ground, a sharp cry escaping his lips when the blaster hit him square in the chest. For the first time in many years, he wonders if Sven made it to the space hospital, if he’s still fighting to free his universe. It’s a memory blurred by grief—he’d slinked back to his quarters and crawled into bed, seeing Shiro’s face—but he remembers the cogs, the civilized veneer over cruelty.

“I know it’s dangerous,” Keith says. “But it’s just to control it, and nothing more.”

Axca shakes her head again. “Lotor had the same thought—to get it so he could keep it out the hands of Zarkon. And quintessence—it prolongs your life to keep leaching off what you love best. It’s a parasitic substance, and I don’t trust it.”

 _You didn’t see,_ he wants to say. _You didn’t see how Shiro was lost to me, how he used up all his strength to communicate with me. If he didn’t, Voltron would have lost, Lotor would have destroyed the galaxy. He would have been satisfied with saving the world, but it means little to me if he wasn’t there._

When Keith opens his mouth, she raises her hand. “I just can’t bear to lose another friend.”

The fight goes out of him, though his heart still thrums harshly under his skin.

“I’ll be careful,” he tells her. “I promise.”

* * *

The warlord is subdued, and when they get back to Daibazaal to drop him off, Keith notices the populace seem more hesitant, more deferential around him than usual.

 _A druid,_ he hears, time and time again. _Warrior. Black Paladin. Half-blood. Zarkon._

It’s an easy connection to make. Keith tries not to let it trouble him; he’s been called terrible things and this will pass.

Yet he does not stay long. Kolivan’s unusually anxious to have him leave, going beyond his usual _get back to work_ attitude, and even asking Keith if he would like an escort back to wherever he’s going.

“An escort?” he asks. “I don’t recall any intelligence reports warning of—”

Kolivan claps a hand on his shoulder, lips close to his ear. “Keith. Word has reached nearly every quadrant of your abilities. It is a cause for concern.”

A prickle runs up his spine. “Concern?”

“Everyone has assumed all quintessence users are either dead or too weak. You may not be as powerful, but the old fear has come back, especially that you hold favor with the leader of Altea and ambassador of Earth, as well as having a reasonable claim to the throne.”

Keith pulls away. “I don’t _want_ to rule. Anyone who knows me—”

“You are dangerous,” Kolivan interrupts. “Or perceived as such, and that’s nearly the same. Your mother has suggested you lay low, and I advise the same. Go to Shiro, go to Earth, and stay out of things for the time being.”

His hackles begin to rise. “But—”

“Keith.” Kolivan’s voice is stern. “Listen to me, as a friend and a commander. It is not safe to remain in Daibazaal or in the public eye. People remember too easily.”

* * *

Keith spends the journey back to Earth fuming, gripping the controls so tightly that his knuckles begin to ache. He’d stormily refused an escort, so his pod is small and inconspicuous, hopefully looking like another cargo ship or travelling vessel to radar systems.

Is that what everyone thinks, even though he helped save the universe? That he’s another Zarkon? Lotor? Will these baseless rumors follow him for the rest of his life? Put him in danger—or worse, his friends, his planet, Shiro?

His whole body trembles with the effort of staying calm.

So when he arrives back home and steps off the ship, Shiro naturally looks concerned.

“Are you all right? How was everything?” 

In reply, Keith growls, a rumble in his throat.

“Keith?” Shiro says soothingly, stepping forward to rub his arm. “Keith, do you need something? Maybe rest?”

Keith does his best to focus—this is Shiro and he is home and the pressures of the world can’t touch them here. _Look at the garden,_ he tells himself, _look at the home we’ve built, look at Shiro—_ but all he can concentrate on is the weight of Shiro in his arms, breathing in the scent of him, his heartbeat racing sluggishly in his chest.

“Keith?” Shiro continues, containing to hold him close. “I can draw you a bath, too, or I can fix you something to eat.”

Shiro is so good. Shiro cares for him. Shiro is—

Shiro is kissing his forehead, pulling away, and Keith clutches tighter, something coiling deep in his stomach, _don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave._

“Keith?”

He wants Shiro, missed him all this time, needs to remember how it feels to be touched by him again. Shiro's looking at him, a slight frown creeping across his lips, and Keith wants to kiss it away, not have Shiro worry like this—

So he wraps his arms around Shiro and presses his mouth against Shiro’s, tasting him, allowing Shiro’s scent to mingle with his own. Shiro’s hands creep up to hold the back of his head and neck, as delicately as handling glass, and Keith leans further into his touch, then yanks back as copper touches his tongue.

Shiro’s wincing as he pulls back, probing his mouth with his tongue. “Ow. Did you…”

“I’m sorry,” Keith chants. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His mouth feels strangely full. “Shiro—”

Shiro tilts his head. “Keith, your—your teeth.”

Keith raises his fingers to his mouth and traces over the no-longer flat surfaces. They’re triangular, pressing warningly into his flesh. He makes a strange noise in the back of his throat, a lament, an apology, how could he be so careless—

“That’s okay,” Shiro says soothingly. “We just have to be careful.”

He bends down to cup Keith’s chin, thumb running tenderly across Keith’s bottom lip, before he kisses Keith.

Keith makes a puppy-like whimper that reminds him of Kosmo, as Shiro kisses him as carefully as his first. He runs fingers down Keith’s neck soothingly, playing with the stray hairs, the calloused fingertips sending electric spikes under his skin.

He wants more of Shiro’s touch, wavering between preferring the delicate grazes and the passionate—even rough—gripping. He’s hungry for Shiro’s touch, anything he wants to give, wanting to please and be pleased.

Shiro draws back again, and Keith growls, reaching for him. “I think we should take this inside, don’t you?”

He agrees, though a part of him wants to continue this under the sun, where anyone can see. Keith allows Shiro to take him by the hand and tug him inside the shack, where the door clicks shut behind them.

And he’s immediately on Shiro, legs wrapped around his hips, Shiro laughing, startled, as he stumbles backwards into the bedroom. The blankets are smooth as freshly-fallen snow, folded into hospital-regulation corners, pillows plumped and arranged in a straight line parallel to the headboard, but when they fall upon it, that doesn’t seem to matter.

Shiro kisses him again, petting his fingers through Keith’s hair. Keith shudders, clutches him tighter, intent on swallowing Shiro’s every breath, feeling his chest constrict. Somehow, a vibrating sound elicits from him, and he sees Shiro’s lips curl up in an astonished smile at the sensation.

Keith reaches up and begins ripping off his clothes, shredding a jagged line down the middle of his shirt, then turning his attention to prying off Shiro’s. He hears several threads snap, Shiro’s laugh, the soft thud of a pillow on the floor. He’s bristling all over, and Shiro gently takes his hands, stilling them.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Keith gasps. “I just… I need you. I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Shiro promises, and sinks to his knees on the floor, face dipping between Keith’s legs.

Keith clutches at Shiro’s hair and howls, as Shiro swallows around his cock, tongue slipping to tease the parts Keith loves best. He tries to bite back his cries, the back of mind spinning with embarrassment, but Shiro undoes him, fingers reaching up to caress Keith’s hips as he drinks him down.

And when Keith pulls him up, he can taste himself on Shiro’s tongue, a fire lighting in his belly as he hisses between his teeth, “ _More_.”

Shiro lightly touches his fingers to Keith’s cheek. “Your eyes…”

Keith does not care about what he looks like, only that Shiro touches him. He drags Shiro in, nuzzling his neck, nipping, and feels Shiro tremble underneath him, and soon, that’s all he can remember.

* * *

He wakes up in some sort of haze, with Shiro’s weight against him, blankets just grazing his toes.

Keith self-consciously touches his now flat-teeth, and turns his attention to Shiro, whose eyes are newly open, hazy with a touch of sleep. Guiltily, he notices the prominent marks on Shiro’s neck, his collarbone, his chest—and even his hair looks like it’s been through a windstorm. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Shiro says, voice a bit dreamy. “That was just… wow.” He reaches up and cups Keith’s cheek in one hand. “Your eyes look back to normal.”

“Normal? What?”

“They turned yellow,” Shiro recounts, still not getting up. “And your pupils were slit like a cat’s—”

Keith bolts up, and rushes to the bathroom. His face looks like it always does, if a little more flushed, and the feverish wave seems to be gone. His throat feels strangely sore, and he reaches up and touches it, seeing Shiro duck behind him and lace his hands around his waist.

“What’s happening?” Keith mutters.

Shiro frowns. “What? Keith, are you okay?”

“I just felt… so strange,” he admits. “It was as if I would die without your touch, that…” His mind works, cataloguing the alien sounds drawn from his mouth, the too-sharp fangs. “I wonder if it’s the quintessence.”

“Quintessence?”

Keith, still looking into the mirror, turns his head to the side. He doesn’t _feel_ different, but something’s going on.

“It’s a long story,” he says. “Let me boil some water.”

* * *

One of the nice things about living in the middle of nowhere is being able to sit with only a robe—or in Keith’s case, a too-long shirt and briefs—at the kitchen table. He sips at his tea, trying to explain everything that happened since he left, idly playing with Shiro’s fingers.

Shiro’s quiet. “It might have been building up for a long time, and when you finally discovered it—” He makes a little _poof_ gesture with his left hand. “Like a powder keg.”

At that comparison, Keith shudders. “Do you think…” He wonders if it’ll keep tugging at him, setting on him like oxygen hitting a tiny flame. “Maybe I should have ignored this, and let it fade over time. Maybe Allura was wrong to want to teach me. Maybe this—is something I can’t stop and I’ll…”

“No,” Shiro says firmly.

“Are you sure? It was just—sensing. Listening. Harmless. And now, it’s just overwhelming and _taking_ me and I just feel…” Keith shakes his head. “What if everyone is right? What if I turn out—”

“Keith.” Shiro takes his hand and presses it against his chest. “No. So many things in life are uncertain, but you are _not_ Zarkon, nor will you ever be.”

His unwavering faith does not comfort Keith. Instead, he feels a panicky energy, even as they make love again and stretch across the bed, the sunset trickling across their legs.

He won’t use quintessence again.

* * *

It’s a promise he keeps for weeks.

He dares not to touch any of the plants bare-handed, preferring to wear heavy garden gloves, or to allow his emotions spill over, even in his mind, or to acknowledge tiny, buzzing bits of energy he can now sense. It’s there, of course. He could pull quintessence to him and he could bring something to life and shatter it in the next breath.

Allura told him he was lucky to possess it, but he doesn’t feel that way. He’s been laying low on Earth, as Kolivan urged, and burying himself to rehabilitating the shack and doing small things, like letting Shiro bounce off his ideas for the next meeting or staying in contact with the Paladins.

Keith’s been hiding things all his life, and this can be tucked away. If he doesn’t acknowledge it, he reasons, it can’t do any harm. And perhaps it’ll become latent again, dormant, and he can forget.

* * *

Eventually, as Kolivan predicted, public opinion calms, even for Keith to be able to leave for another mission—this time, with Shiro.

“Ambassador,” he greets, when Shiro steps out of his room.

Shiro’s dressed to the nines in his Garrison uniform, white and black stretching over his chest, a gold clasp signifying his rank at the center of his heart. His arm’s even polished, glowing faintly blue, big enough to snatch Keith off his feet in one movement.

“Blade Captain,” Shiro murmurs, tracing over Keith’s uniform. For some reason, the ceremonial sash does something to Shiro—Keith doesn’t quite understand it, but he likes it—along with his neatly-braided hair and knife strapped to his thigh.

“Ready for negotiations?”

Shiro chuckles, and reaches for Keith. “I can think of some diplomatic relations that need tending to.”

Heat rises in Keith’s chest, a rumbling rippling in his throat; he clamps it down very, very firmly. “Hey. We need to be ready to dock soon.”

Shiro mock-pouts, but releases Keith. “As you wish.” He clears his throat, turning on his mic, and gives instructions to the bridge in a staggeringly calm voice: “Prepare to dock. Send up the hailing signal.”

The Atlas lands smoothly, and Keith’s proud to stand beside Shiro, who’s greeted warmly by the planet’s representative, who also ducks in a half bow at the sight of Keith.

“You don’t need to,” he says quickly.

“I didn’t know a representative of Daibazaal would be attending this meeting,” they say. “No offense taken, of course.”

Keith shakes his head. “I’m not here in a diplomatic capacity, only as a bodyguard for the Earth ambassador.”

The representative looks wary, but Shiro steps in: “Earth’s pleased to have the friendship of Daibazaal, but the Blade Commander speaks truthfully. I can only hope Earth can also have the friendship of Azura. Shall we?”

Some other planets’ diplomats are already seated, and Keith stuffs down a sigh as negotiations begin. He’s more patient with sitting around a table these days, but much prefers getting his hands dirty and actively working on something. Shiro, beside him, has a silver tongue, explaining Earth’s resources and defense contracts and diplomatic connections.

From what Keith knows, Azura is one of the many colonial planets freed from Empire control and is struggling to establish its independence. Keith’s helped put down some insurgents and pirates aiming to retake the planet or steal the planet’s minerals that can purify any water source, making it valuable to many. Their military and defenses are extremely weak, leaving them vulnerable to outside elements, and it doesn’t help that they’re in a particularly well-known quadrant for many still loyal to Zarkon’s reign.

Personally, Keith doesn’t think Shiro _needs_ an escort, but he’s not going to turn down the chance of spending more time with him.

“We worry about the power vacuum in many quadrants,” their representative is saying. “The Voltron—excuse me, Galactic Coalition—is strong, but there’s only so much one organization can do to protect the entire galaxy. Some of our citizens have expressed a desire to ally with other independent clusters.”

“Still, alliances with the Coalition remain important,” Shiro presses. “One of the main issues is that we legally cannot interfere with independent clusters’ affairs, which can be problematic—”

“Unfortunately, Earth remains weakened from the Galra attacks,” someone says. “Daibazaal has prowess, more than Altea, but it still newly formed. The powerhouses of the Coalition, so to speak, are not fully established.”

“Particularly in Daibazaal,” another adds. “Surely the Coalition cannot continue its grip. There have been calls for elections, or an emperor, or something ruling it besides a body that is supposed to remain neutral.”

“There are,” Shiro acknowledges. “But change cannot come too quickly. Even years later, many are resistant to a democratic or directly representative system. They believe in the strength of one leader—”

“Which rumors say may be Blade Commander Keith Kogane.”

“No,” Shiro says, politely but firmly. “And I wish you wouldn’t talk of people when they cannot answer you—”

“It’s worrisome,” they interrupt. “Someone with his strong connections to the Earth ambassador—I mean no offense—as well as Altea’s queen and many other planets in the Coalition, as well as the independent Blades of Marmora. Not to mention his powers—”

“Powers I have not used,” Keith snaps, forgetting his role for a moment.

“But powers nevertheless.”

“Powers I am not interested in.” The old Keith would get up and leave; now, he tries to speak calmly. “I recognize your concerns, but I assure you—all of you—I have no intention of becoming any sort of ruling figure.”

“Yet you come here. Is Daibazaal here as a spy on fledging negotiations—”

Shiro raises his voice. “Commander Kogane was here to offer his services as an escort, as many in this room are, given the dangers of the quadrant.”

Azura’s representative bristles, but Shiro continues, “This matter is adjourned. Speaking of defenses, our top scientist, Commander Samuel Holt, has allowed me to share some prototypes—”

* * *

There’s a break for recess, and Keith fights to keep from storming away once everyone rises to their feet.

On the way out, Shiro touches his shoulder. “That was a difficult one to get through.”

“And no closer to reaching a conclusion,” Keith says. Another reason why he dislikes these meetings.

“It takes time,” Shiro agrees, and squeezes his shoulder. “But we’re doing well.” He pulls Keith to his side, and Keith obeys, allowing Shiro to briefly nuzzle his neck. “I’m honored to have you watching my back, Blade Commander.”

“I’m happy to be watching yours,” Keith intones. “But perhaps they were right—I should have sent Axca or—”

“No,” Shiro says. “I know their arguments, and they would have complained regardless which Blade member I brought. The Azuras are understandably wary of any sort of Galra-related influence, but they’re usually not overly hostile.”

Keith frowns. “Am I making your job more difficult? Should I stay on the ship?”

“I’m not banishing you,” Shiro says firmly. “This planet is in a hotbed quadrant. The others are able to keep their bodyguards, so there’s no reason you should go. Besides,” his voice lowers, “I couldn’t do _this_ with Axca.”

He kisses Keith, and with that, every protest is drawn out of his throat.

* * *

The sessions resume, and Keith finds himself happy as ever to be back in action and to be with Shiro. They accept the temporary living quarters provided to them, even though Keith wishes they could stay on the ship—he dislikes the idea that anybody can wander the halls.

Still, they make the best of it, and to Keith’s surprise, the negotiations actually seem to be going all right—there’s even a final session scheduled.

“Private,” Shiro says, with a rueful smile. “National security and the final terms before it’s official, all councilmembers and leaders in the room. And then we can go home.”

“Immediately?” Keith asks, half-joking.

Shiro laughs and kisses his cheek. “We’ll see. Maybe on the way back, we can visit Allura.”

* * *

He knows something’s wrong before the shouting.

Later, he’d say it was a gut feeling, the kind one gets when you step into a place that seems empty but isn’t. Or the scent of ozone, the prickle of hairs rising before lightning strikes.

Whatever it was, it has him running to the chambers, blade already drawn.

Of course, there are people he doesn’t recognize guarding the door, and he bets it’s locked from the inside. Heart pounding, Keith goes to a panel he checked out on the first day, slashes it open, and begins to crawl.

It’s a frustratingly cramped shaft, but he keeps going, knot drawn tight in his stomach. He took a glance at the ventilation systems on the first day, but even without it, he feels something like a string connecting him to where he needs to go, clear as a bolded line. In mind’s eye, he can see Shiro, rigid in place.

And soon, he can hear, Shiro’s voice, a forcibly calm “…You don’t have to hurt anyone.”

The familiar sound of flesh striking flesh sounds, and Keith grits his teeth. “If no one cooperates, _everyone_ will get hurt. We’ll do this nicely—”

With an almighty crash, Keith comes down from the airshaft and kicks down two goons so quickly there’s no time to shout, drawing his blade. Everything is crystal-clear, perfectly in focus, everything happening within a leap—no looking around, no pausing—just targets, ready to go down.

It’s an open space, with just the conference table in the middle, the delegates shuttled into one corner with a ring of blasters pointed at them, Shiro outside the circle, unconscious—arm somehow deactivated and lying on the ground—and the Azura leader trembling at the head of the table, a tablet poised threateningly in front of them. Chairs have been kicked aside or thrown or knocked over. The leader of the group still has his hand raised, presumably from striking Shiro.

And with that, Keith goes fucking nuclear.

With a swing, he kicks him hard in the stomach, hearing a snap, then whirls around as the others turn their attention away from the delegates and begin firing. Keith lets the momentum of his feet, the sharp click of his mind, lead him, springing over a chair and slashing at the air. The tablet crashes to the floor—someone curses—a laser zooming right past his ear. He raises his hand and strikes again—blasters drop to the ground—there are shouts of alarm as he draws closer, teeth bared—and blood and the sound of cartilage—and maybe some bones—breaking. He smashes an elbow into someone’s jaw, then stabs another in the belly, snarls at some of the still-shocked delegates to take cover.

He lands at the end of the table, as soundless as a tiger, flips a chair over as blasters fire. Someone’s hand is slamming against the alarm button, and more stream into the room though the double doors, firing indiscriminately. He picks up the chair, cracks its legs against some fool who decided to run at him barehanded, shattering it. That’s okay, because he can keep moving forward, jabbing a corner into someone’s chin, using it as a small shield.

Some delegates manage to escape from the room. No guards are coming—are they dismantled or betrayers or dead?—but Keith keeps going, everything a haze of red, each strike clean and true.

He kicks a chair to the side, sending another tumbling, swings his blade, hears a choked-off scream. He grabs another person, hauling them in front of him as more blasters fire He can feel blood running down his temple, blinks out the sting, keeps going.

The leader’s left crawling on the floor, trying to get to a dropped blaster. Keith drops the dead person and steps hard on the leader’s wrist with a crunch, then aims the point of his blade at their throat.

“You,” he snarls.

Their face twists. “You filthy _Blade_ —”

He flips his weapon and slams the hilt into their head.

It’s been under ten minutes, he’s later told.

Shiro’s still on the ground, and Keith rushes to his side, turning him over. The right side of his head is already clotting, and Keith, without thinking, places a hand over the wound.

Energy thrums, Keith pouring everything—his adrenaline, his fear, his love—into the touch. He pictures flowers blooming, each petal unfolding, each leaf sprouting, each sign that it’s alive. It’s not like drawing water out of the well; it’s more like a magnet, drawing every bit of quintessence into one place, channeling it through Shiro’s body. _Please,_ he thinks, _please please please—_

Shiro wakes up with a gasp, and the first thing he does is glance around the room and smile at Keith.

“…I assume that was all you?” he says weakly.

Keith clutches Shiro to his chest. He can feel whatever overtook him seeping away, the taste of copper running down his throat, a few flashes of white-hot pain where blasters must have grazed.

“Never,” Keith mutters. “Never again.”

And he passes out.

* * *

When he comes to, Shiro’s at his bedside. He looks freshly scrubbed, without even a mark on his head, but his hand trembles when it clutches Keith’s. "Don't you ever do that again." 

Keith manages to roll his eyes. "Then you clearly don't know me well." 

As Shiro begins to feed him ice chips, he catches Keith up to speed on what went down. Someone had infiltrated the meeting, a long-time councilmember, with an intent on seizing power but needed help in claiming. There had been some money changing hands, intelligence that went under the radar in Azura's admittedly poor system, and a still ongoing investigation by the Coalition. Everyone got out all right, further negotiations are postponed, and someone—or multiple people—had leaked what happened in the room. The Blades and the Garrison were shooing away any press, Krolia was guarding the room, and Keith had exhausted himself "beyond physical limits" and was to be put on strict bedrest for the next few weeks. 

"Allura says whatever happened shouldn't have," Shiro concludes. "But she thinks what you did... took some of it out of you."

Keith heaves a sigh. On the other hand, he's afraid he can no longer do much if Shiro's hurt like this again. He's watched Shiro die more than once, and somewhere along the line, if it happens again, it's going to break him. 

His ability is still there, though, he knows, just ashes rather than kindling. And there's so many questions that he'll probably never get the answer to, not even with Allura's help. Maybe it was meant to be sparked and quickly extinguished. Maybe it was meant to only be used strongly only just this once. 

Yet, he's relieved—he doesn't have that power tugging at him, tempting him at all times, and maybe his wish has come true: he can be free of it and simply just be with Shiro. It's a small price to pay for peace, for everyone's eyes to turn away from him, for the reassurance that he will never plunge over the edge if he becomes reckless one time too many. He already knows he's selfish—Shiro comes first, time and time again, even before everything happened. 

But Keith has no regrets. 

"What matters is that you're here," he says. "Now, let's see if we can go home."


End file.
